


Childish

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Arguing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Roger Waters x Reader after they get in an argument?'Can do! Please correct me on characterisation.





	Childish

You grab the cushion and throw it, and Roger catches it, looking incredibly exhausted by this entire ordeal. You, for one, wish it hadn’t quite gotten to this level, but when the man is so stubborn…

“You are the most pig-headed man,” you say, jaw set, and he folds his arms, tilting his head. The fact he’s so calm right now is infuriating as well. You want to kick him, punch him… anything to get a response from him. It feels like he doesn’t  _care_  right now, and that makes you angry.

“You’re being an irrational little  _child_ ,” he says, and you feel anger well up again, teeth grinding. “Just because you can’t talk about this like an adult doesn’t mean-”

“You  _think_  you’re an adult, but you’re the equivalent of that kid who thinks its mature to run to the teacher!” you snap, and he raises his eyebrows. “ _React_! Do something! Fucking…” You grab another cushion, and he huffs, jaw muscles tensing. “What do I have to throw this at?!”

“Don’t you see how childish you’re being?” he asks, sharply, and you shrug.

“If it makes you show that you  _care_ …!” you shoot back, and he closes his eyes, looking down at the floor.

“I care. I just don’t want to get involved in your  _childish_ -” He emphasises the word, looking back up at you. “-bullshit, okay?” You look at the pillow, and then back at him. “Throw it. Just throw it at me. Nothing Syd hasn’t pulled, anyway.” Those words make sickness and a little more anger jolt through you – how dare he pull that card on you? – but you drop the cushion anyway.

“You don’t care. You’re so emotionless,” you say, wearily, and throw yourself down onto the sofa. “Whatever.” He sits next to you, and you turn away.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make sure someone here is the adult,” he says, sharply, and you grit your teeth. “I’m not…”

“…trying to condescend?” you say, and he sighs.

“Will you let me talk?”

“You’ll do it anyway,” you reply, simply, and he huffs.

“Please.” He reaches out, and you turn away. “Oh, whatever. I’m not trying to piss you off, I’m trying to talk to you like an adult.”

“And calling me a child is helping that?!” you say, and he exhales.

“Just listen. I don’t think you’re  _wrong_. I just don’t think you’re right either. And it’s not a discussion if I can’t say my piece.”

“No, but you’ll happily stop me saying mine,” you mutter, and he closes his eyes.

“You said yours, loudly, over and over. I think the neighbours heard yours.” You look at him, and he reaches out to you. “Okay.” He sighs, and puts his hand on your arm. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want this.”

“You think  _I_  want to?” you mutter, and he reaches out, hauling you awkwardly towards him.

“I’m sorry. There. You won’t get that again,” he says, warningly, and you raise an eyebrow. An apology? The sky must be falling. “Now, can you apologise, and can we move on, please?”

“…okay. I’m sorry,” you say, and he smiles at you – you smile back, and he nods.

“Now, I think I’m right because-”


End file.
